


Strange What Desire

by misaffection



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:25:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1840882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misaffection/pseuds/misaffection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Carter is halfway to her vacation destination when all hell breaks loose and she's forced to beg a favour from Baal. She knows he'll demand payment, but the price he states isn't anything she'd expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange What Desire

It was just her stupid luck. She's logged hours in a fighter jet, travelled through space in a variety of craft, in a freaking wormhole, and the one time she boards a damn passenger jet, everything goes wrong.

There'd be no problem on the hop between Colorado Springs Airport and George Bush International, but halfway across the Gulf of Mexico an engine had exploded, taking most of the wing with it. The result is that gravity has taken hold and they're crashing. At least it's going down in the sea and there'll be no casualties on the ground.

Sam Carter takes a deep breath of oxygen from the mask and glances to her left. No casualties on the ground, but there's over two hundred people on this flight. The guy in the seat nest to hers is busy kissing his ass goodbye. Across the aisle, a woman holds her child close, quiet terror in her eyes. It drives a pain into Sam's heart, galvanises her into action. She shoves past the quivering businessman and heads to the cockpit.

Well, slithers – the angle of descent is beyond steep so she more slides than actually walks. There isn't a whole lot she can do, not when there's a wing half hanging off, but if she is going to die, then she's going out trying.

Just like she's always done.

The pilot stares at her when she drags his companion out and then sits down. It says a lot that he doesn't ask, doesn't order her the hell out. Sam runs her gaze over the controls. Not that different. And if she keeps telling herself that, she might even believe it.

She has one advantage. It rankles, but there are lives at stake, and they're more important than her pride. She picks up the radio mike and twists the dial. The suggestions being offered by the tower of the nearest airport fade to static, then there's a quiet. Not quite nothing, but close.

“Okay, you complete bastard, I hope you're listening.” It's not the best opening, but she's had a bad day. “I'm on Flight 955, flying towards Miami.” Sam stares at the rapidly approaching ocean. “Correction – we're crashing into the Gulf of Mexico. You said to call if I needed you. Well, I and two hundred other people do. Now.”

She pauses. The radio remains quiet. Almost, she thinks she might have gotten it wrong. Almost.

“If you want me to beg, then I'm begging. Please help. Everyone is going to die if you don't.” Her voice cracks, her mind full of the little blond girl clinging to her mommy. “Please.”

A faint swooshing comes through the speaker. The slightest sound of air, then that voice, the one she hates so very much and yet is so very relieved to hear. “Samantha,” Baal purrs. “What do you imagine I can do about it?”

She's no idea. “I don't know. Something. _Anything_.”

“Anything?”

His tone tells her what she says next is a deal with the devil, but better that than the alternative. “Yes,” she whispers. “Anything.”

“As you wish.”

Static breaks. Sam swears at the loss of contact, but no amount of twiddling the dial brings it back. The reading on the altimeter continues to drop. The shimmering water looms ever closer.

When the engine had first exploded, it had come with screams and cries of the airplane's passengers. That panic has stopped, has been still for some time, but when there is a sound almost beyond sound, it breaks out again. Everyone wants to know what now?

Sam already knows, because she can see it. Where the mothership has been, she's no idea, but wherever it was happened to be far enough that it broke the sound barrier getting here. The pilot makes an incoherent noise, eyes bugging out at the blatantly alien craft some five hundred yards away. It tracks them down, matching their pace, then the air _glitters_.

For a moment, Sam isn't sure what's happening. Then she notices that the altimeter is slowing its mad drop. The speed of their descent lessens. She looks up in time to see the mothership disappear overhead. Land comes into view as the airplane levels out. She doesn't know what Baal has done, or how he's doing it, but right now she doesn't care. She sags back in the co-pilot's seat, boneless with relief.

Ten minutes later, the airplane is lowered carefully onto the asphalt at Miami International. No lives are lost. Sam stands at the bottom of the emergency slide, hugging herself as she watches everyone get off. She manages a smile at the mother and child. But her shaking isn't solely down to diffusing tension.

“It's a miracle!” someone cries out. Perhaps it is, but the God they praise isn't one known for his kindness. Sam knows Baal expects something in payment for his benevolence.

The pull of an Asgard beam confirms her worst fears. Sam doesn't fight the Jaffa who grabs hold of her arm. Her life is worth sacrificing. One for two hundred isn't that bad a price. She's led into a room that surprises her with its unusual restraint – the Goa'uld are normally about ostentatious luxury, but there's no draped velvet or glint of gold. There's not even a throne. Instead, there's a couple of benches, both covered in various projects in varying stages of completion, and Baal is perched on what's basically a bar stool. He's wearing a white lab coat, a pair of goggles, and a pair of thick gloves. A small explosion of blue light and green smoke explains the protective gear but not what he's doing.

“My Lord, the prisoner, as instructed,” the Jaffa says.

Baal looks up. The goggles make his eyes seem comically large. Sam manages to hold back a laugh as he shoves them out of the way. “Samantha is our guest,” he corrects. “Please desist in bruising her arm.”

The Jaffa releases her. “As my Lord commands.”

“Your Lord does.”

Sam glances back. The Jaffa marches out. She turns back to Baal, rather aware she owes him big time. “So, you know... thanks.”

A dark eyebrow wings. “For what, Samantha?”

She glares at him, refusing to squirm. “For saving my life, and those on board the airplane.”

“You're welcome.” He rises and pulls off his gloves. “There are few enough truly intelligent people on Earth. It would be a pity to lose one.”

Sam fights a smile. “Careful, Baal – that almost sounded like a complement.”

He removes the lab coat, revealing an eye-burning Hawaiian shirt and bare arms that are far more muscled that Sam has imagined. She tries not to stare, but when she meets his eyes, she knows from his grin that she failed.

“What do you want? I know you didn't save the plane out of the goodness of your heart – you don't have one.”

“Is that how you express gratitude, Samantha? By insulting me?” He tugs the goggles off his head and tosses them onto the bench. “You do neither of us justice by your suspicions.”

Sam scoffs. “Oh, because I've no reason to be suspicious I suppose? Come off it, Baal. You're a Goa'uld. You've tried to kill me in the past.”

“And you me. However, there is no need for me to kill you now, therefore I do not desire your death.” He gazes at her for a moment, then sighs. “Is that so hard for you to believe, Samantha?”

“Not at all.” She gives him a hard smile. “Not if there's something in it for you. So I ask again – what do you want? What's your price for saving my life?”

“I require... legitimacy. I am, after all, something of an illegal alien on your shores.” He picks up an envelope and holds it out. Sam takes it from him, then pulls out the paper it contains. “I believe it's known as a 'green card'.”

Sam stares at the marriage licence. Her own name she recognises, but the other... “Asir?”

“It's the closest to the original that I could find.”

Original? She looks at him. “Original as in?”

“It is merely more... acceptable than Baal.” He huffs in something she thinks might be embarrassment. “I expect nothing in terms of... well, human companionship shall we say? This is merely a convenient way to become a citizen.” He pauses and picks up a shattered glass. “Further, the name given has no ties to the Trust. I was very careful about that.”

Sam blinks. “You need an escape route? You?”

He meets her eyes. “Yes.”

“And the one you've chosen is marriage? To me? What makes you think I'd agree to a plan that would give you more freedom on Earth?”

“Apart from owing me your life? You promised anything, Samantha. This is my price.”

Her mind runs through the possibilities. She's no weapon, no one has any idea where she is. What happens if she refuses? Biting down on her bottom lip, Sam stares at him, trying to figure out what he's up to. Beneath the cocky grin is something less sure. He's tense, hanging on her answer as if it truly matters, and that makes her look harder, stepping closer to him. He lets her, and the mask slips. Only a little, but enough to glimpse the weariness. She doubts now that his reference to the original body was accidental, because she's remembering just how old he really is. Maybe there's only so long one can play at God before it gets boring.

Or, more likely, he's another game in motion. Sam can only discover which if she plays along.

“Say I agree,” she says, lifting a hand as he visibly relaxes. “I'm not saying I do, just... I need to know what you plan to do with that freedom.”

“I plan to live, Samantha. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Sam holds his gaze. This close, it'd be harder to miss the lie. She doesn't see it. “All right.”

Baal blinks, clearly not having expected her compliance. “All right?”

“As in I agree to marry you.”

Once she'd seen a photo of her in a wedding dress. He hadn't been in it, but that was another time, another life. A whole damn different universe, and it doesn't seem to be bleeding into hers. Not that she's doing this because of that – not even Baal deserves to be a back-up husband.

Not that he'll be any at all. She pushes away a sudden and rather interesting mental image of what he might look like naked. Heat rushes to her cheeks and she turns to hide her embarrassment.

“I take it there will be a... contract?” she asks. “Terms and conditions?”

“With a full refund if not completely satisfied,” he returns, then laughs at he startled glance. “It's very simple, Sam. We just need to remain married until I can become an American citizen. After that, there will be an amicable divorce that will leave you considerably better off.”

“And during?” She's trying to ignore the flutter that his use of her shortened name caused. “I'm not going to don an apron and bake you cookies.”

“I expect nothing of the sort.” Baal perches back on his bar stool. “I have a house in Colorado Springs. It has two wings, both autonomous. Though I will make no demand, it would be helpful if you could remain there for at least six months. You may come and go as you please. You may take lovers, as long as you are discrete about it.” He pauses and rakes her with a heated gaze that sets every nerve fizzing. “Assuming you do not wish to claim conjugal rights.”

Sam coughs, reddens further. She flaps a hand at him. When the fit passes, she croaks, “No.”

Baal gives a dramatic sigh. “Pity.”

She does _not_ want to get into this conversation. Not when her mind is working overtime and giving her explicit thoughts of satin sheets and sweat and those long fingered hands exploring her body. It's been far too long since she shared her bed with something more personal than a vibrator.

Focusing on his odd attire, she decides to distract him. “What is with that shirt? It's easily the ugliest thing I've seen you in.”

Of course the inference there is he's looked good in other things. At least that's what she takes from his grin. He smooths a hand over the bright floral print. “Leather is all very well and good, but it does get rather hot. Especially in humid weather.”

Her brain catches up. “Oh, you bastard.”

“Is it not a popular dream of Tau'ri women to marry upon a beach?” he enquires, all wide-eyed innocence. “I believe it is romantic.”

Sam snorts a laugh. “What would you know about romance?”

“Now, Sam, don't be so petty and use your head. A man of my... experience knows a lot about a great many things.” His grin fades to a small smile that does odd things to her stomach. “Not everything was about gaining power.”

Holy Hannah, but this is the worst idea she's every gone along with. Yet she's already told him yes, and she doesn't dare to try and retract from that promise. He might smile and be charming, but there's a cold-blooded killer beneath his skin. Literally.

“Right,” she says, fishing for a way to extract herself from the conversation. “So I take it everything is arranged?”

“There was a certain amount of foreplanning, yes.” He holds up a hand. “The airplane got into difficult all by itself. I did nothing to endanger it or those onboard.”

Oddly, Sam believes him. He's never shown any reticence in admitting to his crimes before, and he's already gotten what he wants from her. “Okay. So... what now?”

White light answers her. It fades, leaving her on a wide stretch of beach, Baal at her side. Are they doing it now? She barely manages to process that thought before he chuckles, takes her hand, and leads her up a flight of stone steps. At the top is a large villa with white walls and red tiles. Its surrounded by high bushes that enclose it. A kidney-shaped pool glistens invitingly.

“I did consider a hotel, but I prefer my privacy. And luxury.” Baal leaves her side and goes to stand at the edge of the pool. Sam fights the urge to push him in. “I took the liberty of transferring your luggage ahead of us.”

“You're too kind,” she murmurs.

“Aren't I just?”

Sam chooses not to reply. He has, for all intents and purposes, kidnapped her. Though it's without doubt the nicest place she's been... well, not imprisoned. She could walk away, even now. Her eyes meet his and she knows he's waiting for her to try, to break her promise. The expectation rankles and she pushes her shoulders back, her chin lifting in defiance.

Baal smiles slightly in return and inclines his head.

“So Mr Organised, when exactly is our wedding of convenience?”

“Three this afternoon.”

Well, that leaves no time for cold feet. Or shopping. “An hour? I've an _hour_ to get a dress?”

Baal huffs. “Please. If you'll come with me, I believe there is a solution to that problem.”

“If you've bought me a dress, there'll be hell to pay,” she remarks as she trots after him. There are double doors leading into the villa. The cool is a blessed relief after even a couple of minutes in the heat of Miami. Butter-coloured marble covers the floor. The furniture is the poshest wicker she's ever seen. A mirrored bar cuts the room in two. Baal goes over to it and takes a large green bottle out of the silver bucket. He pops the cork with practised ease. Sam rolls her eyes. She wouldn't be surprised to discover this place actually belongs to him – it has that air of obscene luxury she acquaints with him and his kind.

His soft cough makes her jump. He pretends not to notice and holds out the half-filled champagne flute. Sam takes it from him, murmuring thanks because that's how she was brought up and because she's no idea what else to say. The drink tastes of bubbles and extravagance.

“Hell or not,” he says. “I did indeed purchase a dress.”

Sam sighs. “Of course you did.”

Baal turns and looks at something. She follows his gaze to the far wall. He's hooked the hanger over what is probably the most expensive mirror on the planet. From it hangs a dress that's straight out of every wedding fantasy she's had. Blue satin forms the sleeveless base, overlaid by white chiffon that creates floaty sleeves. It's beautiful in its simplicity, perfect for the temperature, and she's no doubt it'll fit like a glove.

“Oh,” she breathes.

“Does it pass you exacting standards, then?”

Sam can't breathe. She wishes this was real, that she was marrying someone she cared about, that her friends could be there, that her father could walk her to the altar. Tears blur her vision. She drops the glass and bolts outside.

Baal leaves her for a good half hour, then joins her at the poolside. She doesn't look up, just sighs hard. “Time?”

“Samantha–”

“I'm okay.” It's a lie, but she doesn't want his sympathy. “I'm good to go.”

He nods. “Of course.”

She gets up. When he doesn't follow, she arches an eyebrow. “You'd better have something else to wear, because I am _not_ marrying you in that shirt.”

His laughter follows her inside. She takes the dress, finds a bathroom, and strips of her travel-worn tee shirt and jog pants. There's no time for a shower, so she wets a washcloth and runs it over her face and arms, refreshing her itchy skin. Then she pulls the dress over her head, smoothing it down and fastening the zipper before looking at the mirror.

He's good taste – she'll give him that much. A good eye as well, given how well it fits. She swallows the pain in her throat and tucks a loose strand of hair behind an ear. Then she pulls the tie out, runs her fingers through to free the knots, and finally loops her hair into a half ponytail that suits the dress better.

It's probably more of an effort than she ought to be making. She's not really getting married. She needs to remember that. Bracing herself, she leaves the bathroom in search of her pretend husband to be. She stops dead just inside the room.

His outfit consists of a short-sleeved shirt in pale blue, a waistcoat and trousers in a darker shade, and a white tie. He looks ridiculously good and she can't help the small squeak. He turns. His eyes widen and for a moment she can see right to the heart of him. Then the usual smirk twists his lips and the wall slams back up.

“Samantha, you look beautiful.”

“You chose the dress.” She doesn't know why she dismisses the complement, or why she can't find the words to tell him how damn attractive he looks right now. It occurs to her, far too late, that she's agreed to spend at least six months in relatively close proximity to him. There's going to be nothing left of her sanity at the end of that. “Aren't we going to be late?”

His eyes scan her face, but he decides not to comment. Instead he offers her his arm and escorts her out the villa. Down the steps to the beach. A flower-strewn arch marks the spot, but there's no one other than the celebrant. Sam grips Baal's bare arm a little tighter and forces herself to breathe.

The dark-skinned woman gives them a smile and greets them warmly. She's no idea they aren't really madly in love, that this is all a hoax. Her friendliness makes Sam feel small. But she's promised and if she wants to know what Baal is up to, then she has to go through with this.

The words of the vows taste like ashes in her mouth.

When the celebrant asks for the rings, Baal pauses. For a moment, Sam thinks he's forgotten, but then he tugs a small box from his trouser pocket. She should never have doubted his attention to detail, she thinks bitterly. He opens the box and removes the ring. She doesn't get that much of a look, then he has her left hand. His voice is soft and oddly gentle as he recites the words that bind her to him. Cool metal slides down her finger. She tears her eyes from his soul-piercing gaze and examines the ring.

Small diamonds surround a pale sapphire in what's an obvious take on the Stargate. Amusement flutters and she shakes her head. Offers him a wry smile.

“Thought it was suitable,” he says, to which she's no comeback because it would be perfect if this was real.

“Yeah.”

He hands her a second ring. She blinks, having not thought he would go quite that far. She repeats the vows and puts in on; the prolonged contact of her hands on his giving her goosebumps. The celebrant summarises their promises, then flashes them a grin.

“You may kiss the bride.”

Oh crap.

Sam feels her cheeks heat. Baal arches a questioning eyebrow, but she knows she can't refuse. It'd look far too strange. She takes a breath, steps a little closer, then puts her hand on his shoulder. His lips twitch before they touch hers softly.

Electric shoots through her. She gasps at the shock, and he takes advantage. His tongue is smooth and hot, and evokes something deep and dark inside her. Her arms circle his neck of their own accord. She presses closer, the hollow of her heart pulling him in like a black hole. Her nerves fizz. Her blood pounds hot and hungry. She tastes salt and realises she's crying. She isn't entirely sure why.

Baal is the one who breaks the kiss. He's breathing hard and looks as startled as she feels. There's a hand on the small of her back. The other cups her face. Sam stares into his brown eyes, needing the answer to a question she doesn't dare ask.

He dries her cheek with the sweep of his thumb. The action almost brings her to tears again. “Sam,” he says, then hesitates. His forehead furrows and his mouth works. He gives a laugh, but it sounds forced. “I think I might have left something off the plan.”

She's never denied his attractiveness, but she'd not realised it effected her so much. “I think we both did.”

Baal looks about. The celebrant has left them to it, so there's no one to overhear. “Sam, I won't hold you to promises you didn't mean. Nothing has changed in that respect.”

“Just a rather basic one.” Sam doesn't feel as horrified as she expects. She fiddles with the ring. It fits as perfectly as the dress. “It felt like you meant it.”

“Likewise,” he replies, his tone almost accusatory. She suspects he's not usually taken by surprise by his own emotions that often. He scrubs a hand over his head, then rests it on her shoulder. “Which rather leaves us with the question of what we do now.”

“Well, I need a drink.” Sam slips out of his grasp and takes a couple of steps towards the villa, then pauses. She looks back and holds out her hand, ring sparkling in the sunshine. “Coming?”

He tilts his head, the puzzled furrow on his forehead deepening further, but he takes her hand. His fingers link through hers and she lets herself smile. He follows her up and into the villa. In the cool quiet, Sam takes stock of the situation.

She's attracted to Baal and, if she's not mistaken, he's similarly affected. It might just be lust, an itch they both need to scratch, but she has two weeks' vacation and a private villa at her disposal. What would be wrong with a little sun, sea, sand and sex? They _are_ married after all.

“Before we get into deep and meaningful discussions, I need to check something,” she tells him, then uses her grip on his hand to yank him close. She gets a quick glance at his wide eyes before she shuts her own and plants a second kiss on his mouth.

The first was no freak incident. Not from the way her blood erupts at the touch of his skin on hers. Need lightnings through her, so sharp it hurts. She whimpers into his mouth. He grabs her head, fingers knotting in her hair. The other hand digs into her hip. His tongue battles hers. She nips it, tastes the tang of his blood. It's not enough. She needs more.

Buttons clatter on the marble floor as Sam rips his waistcoat open. She breaks from his mouth so she can manage the knot of his tie. It flutters free, a pale blue flag of surrender. Hers. His. Something isn't quite right, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except the yawning ache she needs him to fill. She groans his name.

He pulls her head up, covers her mouth. The fire in her blood is a raging inferno and she's half afraid she's going to burn out. Half afraid that she won't. Cool air washes over her back. She backs up, then lets him yank the dress off. Hot eyes rake her. The appreciation in their depths makes her grin.

“Samantha.”

She ignores the slight censure and wraps her arms around his neck. Her breasts flatten against his bare chest. He mutters a curse, then grips her shoulders. “Sam,” he says and it's edged with pain. “Sam, _please_.”

“Yes.” The consent tumbles freely from her. She couldn't hold anything back if she tried. “Yes, yes, _yes_.”

Baal sweeps her up. She giggles and rests her head on one broad shoulder. He carries her to a bedroom. Honeymoon suite, her brain supplies. Her pulse rackets up another notch. He lays her down then flashes her a wicked smile. She's not left wondering long – he eases her legs apart and drops between her thighs. She jerks at the touch of his tongue.

“Oh God!”

“Precisely,” he chuckles, then gives himself over fully to his chosen task. Sam knots the sheet in her hands, fighting to stay still against the rough waves of pleasure. He's very, very good. And she's been ready to go off since the beach. She shatters on a scream.

Gentle hands stroke her thighs, then her abdomen and higher. The caresses put her back together, and she'd never have expected such care. When he kisses her, she tastes herself and then only him. The need nudges her again. She moans.

“Already?” he asks, humour lighting his eyes. “You _are_ wired.”

“I don't need the damn commentary, Baal. Just fuck me.”

“Now who knows nothing of romance?” He laughs as he smooths her hair off her face. She meets his gaze and her heart lurches. “I shall, my sweet, but not until I've pleasured you as well as you deserve.”

His kiss silences her before she can argue. Not that she really wants to. Once he's fully explored her mouth, he shifts his attention to her breasts. He teases her nipples without mercy, making her squirm and beg him to satisfy the hunger hollowing her out. He takes her to that edge, holds her there for a time that seems to stretch into eternity before he lets her fall.

She's never climaxed from someone playing with her breasts before. She imagines there's a few more firsts in store for her. Baal does have, as he pointed out, considerable experience.

He lies beside her, stroking her belly as she comes down. That he gives her breathing space is touching. She turns her head and smiles just before his lips brush hers. “Enjoying yourself?” she asks.

“Mm, it has been some years since I last truly indulged.” His smile fades. “And never to this degree. There have been few women to capture my attention, Samantha. I am not so easily satisfied.”

It would be easier if he was. Sam closes her eyes, aware of how close she is to something dangerous. How much she wants to be. Tonight is not going to be enough. What happens if the fortnight isn't? What happens if she forgets he isn't her husband?

“Don't think,” he pleads. “Not yet.”

“It scares me.”

“And not me?”

She looks at him. There's no mask now. It's just him and her, and the strong carnal attraction that's edging into more. Hunger darkens his eyes, not quite hiding the shock and fear. He hasn't been prepared, has been rocked as violently as she has. Sam takes a little comfort in that knowledge.

“Two weeks. That's long enough for this to burn out.” She cups his cheek. The stubble is rough against her palm. “Light me up, Baal. I need you to.”

He holds her gaze, his still shadowed. She knows what's troubling him. But she can't worry about what ifs right now – the hunger is riding her again, and only his touch can satisfy it. She wants him inside her. Thankfully, he seems to understand that.

Sam gasps at his thrust in. He pauses, but she doesn't want that. Doesn't need it. She brings her knees up, locks her ankles together at the small of his back. He gets the message immediately. His hands slip beneath and grasp her shoulders. Leverage. She gets chance for one deep breath in, then he's thrusting hard and fast and she can't breathe at all. Her vision dims, her senses centring until all she's aware of is him – the slip and slide inside her, the weight of his body, the grip of his hands. The pants that heat the side of her neck. The occasional mutter of dirty words.

She drags her nails across his back and Baal grunts. Slams in hard and then grinds. Sam arches, the scream locked in her throat as wave after wave swamps her. He continues to shift his hips, extending the climax until she whimpers a plea. A shudder rattles his spine. Then he sags against her.

They're both sweaty and breathing hard. Sam feels the lethargy pull at her limbs; a satisfaction not experienced for quite some time. She nudges Baal. He shifts with a dazed murmur, flopping beside her and then winding a possessive arm across her stomach. She probably ought to move him. She doesn't. Not does she question why. It takes some effort, but she's determined not to think about what's happened.

For once, she doesn't want to evaluate her actions or the reasons behind them. It can be whatever it is. It either burns out or... it doesn't. She doesn't want to think. She only wants to feel.

Baal's eyes snap open as she crawls on top of him. She grins at his slight panic. “You claim superiority often enough,” she says. “Time to prove you have it in you.”

His eyes glow. It's the first reminder of the other part of him she's had. She jumps a little, then laughs at her reaction. “A Goa'uld possesses the strength of many men,” Baal informs her, his voice flanged. “I'm up for it if you are.”

Sam glances down his body. So he is. She runs her hand over his hair and plants a lingering kiss on his mouth. “Fourteen days and thirteen nights. Let's see who gives up first.”

Baal laughs, grabs her hips and pulls her down. She grunts at the sudden intrusion, then slaps his chest. The light fades from his eyes and went he speaks, his voice is human once more.

“You're on, my sweet.”


End file.
